


Fiddler

by BlackScotch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Fiddling, Incomplete, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackScotch/pseuds/BlackScotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' favorite music store is about to get a whole lot...hotter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The music shop was Stiles’ favorite place in the whole world. Days like today--days that had been terrible, rotten, no-good, very, very bad days--he just liked to go in there and take in all the gleaming instruments. The polished piano in the corner, not for sale, but for old Ms. Watts, who lived across the street and came in to play songs from her days as a chorus girl sometimes. The wall of songbooks, bright and tempting. The array of shining guitars and a few lonely banjos, of bright horns and lovely ukeleles. But Stiles’ instrument was the fiddle. Always had been; something about the way it could be sad and soft and beautiful one moment, then wild and insane the next.

  
On that particular day, Stiles walked in, took a whiff of wood and resin, and utterly relaxed. Coach’s insults, Scott’s dreaminess and subsequent absence, Stiles’ issues in school, his father’s increased drinking and the harsher rules that came with it: all of that just melted away. He let his fingers glide over the beloved piano, a few guitar strings, the curve of a French horn, and then he stood before the three fiddles Mr. Varo had on display. One was stained dark and a little bit wider than Stiles would like; one was a blonder wood with a light brown inlay, so delicate-looking Stiles imagined it would shatter the second a bow touched it. But that middle fiddle was perfect. Orangey-brown, the right size, it even just smelled right. Stiles reached out a pointer finger and strummed one of the strings to produce a note so clear he swore he physically felt the impact in his chest.

  
Stiles looked furtively over his shoulder. No one was in the shop; Mr. Varo knew him well and was happy to let customers try out the instruments, so long as they were careful. And boy, would Stiles be careful. He couldn’t afford this fiddle; hell, he couldn’t even afford the bow. So he took it off the rack as if it were made of whisper-thin glass, settling it under his chin gently. Stiles gripped the fiddle and the bow for a minute, just feeling the weight of them both. Up until this now, he’d only ever played his mother’s fiddle at home, which had been her mother’s before her. That one was great, but heavier and worn, and this one string always seemed to be just a smidgen out of tune. The fiddle in his hands was solid but not heavy, loved but untethered to the memory of a previous owner. For a second, Stiles forgot that he didn’t own it. He could hear it singing out to him, a new song that soared and plunged; so he put the bow to that fiddle and set the song free.

  
Stiles played like a man possessed. A man opening up his own heart and pouring it into the song. It flew high and madcap, it dashed down and swung low and sad. The fiddle seemed to know what he would do before he did it, seemed to know what he wanted to play before he himself knew. The lightest touch brought forth sounds he had only dreamed of making before. Stiles was so wrapped in this world of music that he brought forth that he forgot everything, right down to who he was. Nothing mattered but his hands and that beautiful, beautiful fiddle and those utterly perfect notes they made together.

  
And then it was over and Stiles was sweating a bit and he was breathing hard and someone was clapping.

  
Stiles spun around to take in something--someone--tall, broad, and woah handsome.

  
“Uh, I, um--” he stuttered, suddenly uncomfortable aware of the oil stain on his shirt, the sweat on his upper lip, and how he had completely forgotten the every word in the English language.  
The hot (HOT) guy just smiled (INTERNAL SCREAMING) and shook his head a little. “Man, you are amazing! Where’d you learn that?”

  
“Oh,” Stiles felt his face go hot and he swiped at his upper lip. “Uh, my mom. Family thing, I guess. It just, uh, comes to me.” He winced. “That sounded pretentious, sorry, I--”

  
“Nah, dude,” the guy came closer, with an expression of--could it be?--awe on his (HOT) face. “Talent like that, you’ve got every right to be a little pretentious. I’m Derek, by the way. I work here, so no worries. I’m not some kind of fiddler-stalker or anything.” He grinned self-deprecatingly and Stiles almost came then and there.

  
“Oh! Oh. Uh. I’m Stiles. And I wasn’t worried about the, um, stalker thing. Um.” _Dammit, Brain. The one time I need words and you can’t come up with some witty sarcasm here? Oh, God. Those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. Oh Lord._

  
Derek was talking again. “So what do you think? You’ve got that lovestruck, puppy-eyes look musicians get in here around all the instruments. The way she fits on you--match made in heaven.” Words accompanied by a grin Stiles could swear was wicked.

  
Stiles shook his head, pushing away thoughts of heaven and the hot music store boys that likely frequented there. “Nah, I’ve got my mom’s old one at home. Save up enough tips from work and maybe one day. For now, I’ll just come in from time to time to sit here and drool on her.” He put the fiddle back on the rack carefully, lining the bow up next to it as if it were a sleeping child.

  
He could feel Derek’s eyes on his, and when he returned the gaze he found the guy looking at him thoughtfully. Derek cocked his head to the side most becomingly and shrugged. “You come in any time you want. Music like yours has gotta be played.” Derek grinned wickedly again. “Come after seven thirty, if you can. That’s when I work. I’d love to see you play again.”  
“A nocturnal sort of guy, huh?”

  
That grin turned positively predatorial, as if Derek had a little joke all to himself. “Something like that.”

  
Stiles stuck out a hand to shake. “Well then. See you around, Derek.”

  
“See you soon, Stiles.”

  
Back in the Jeep, Stiles shook himself all over, trying not to freak out about how Derek wanted him to come during his shift; and about how when they shook hands goodbye, Derek held on just a little too long.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which late night shenanigans occur. (Not as much in the way of shenanigans as we'd all like, mind you, but hey. Shenanigans.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO this was supposed to be a one-shot thing, but I'm feeling a chapter two. Maybe some more chapters. Christmas and stuff is around the corner. Who knows. Thanks, y'all.

As fate would have it, the next time Stiles saw Derek was not while Stiles was a) in the music store, b) looking good, or c) fully clothed.

  
It started with a call from Georgia, the bartender at the Iron Hill (local bar and brewery over on Oak Street) at 2 am.

  
“Stiles? Do me a favor and come pick up your dad, honey.”

  
Stiles, who had been dead-to-the-world-asleep under about four comforters, mumbled out a groggy assent, then sat staring blearily at the glowing phone in his hand.

  
Stiles yawned and shivered before standing up and scratching his head. He scrabbled around under the bed with his foot and drew out his jeans, but decided to forego the shirt. It was 2 am--who was crazy enough to be out this late (early?) anyway?

  
Well. Stiles’ dad, for one. Maybe not crazy, but certainly drunk enough. Georgia calling Stiles in the wee hours for his father was no new occurrence. The drinking had spawned from Stiles’ mom dying--he winced at the briefest flash of memory as he reached for his keys and slipped out the door--but had definitely gotten worse as the years went on. At first, the snort of whiskey after dinner had filled up to a glass; then a half bottle, then a full one. Soon, Stiles had found them under the kitchen sink and on his dad’s bedside table. While Stiles was busy with the start of his sophomore year, Sheriff Stilinski was busy making the acquaintance of the Iron Hill’s stronger drinks; and quickly after that, the acquaintance of Georgia’s back room, where she let him sleep off more than one particularly bad night. She’d always had a soft spot for Stiles’ dad, seeing as his sister had been her best friend until she--Stiles’ aunt--had died in a car accident. As for the Beacon Hills police force, they’d always managed to look the other way when the sheriff came in with the ghost of a drink scenting his hands. He was remarkably clear-headed during the day, on the job; it was only when darkness fell that the sheriff seemed to remember that his wife was dead.

  
Stiles backed out of the driveway and meandered down the dark streets mostly on autopilot. A softly blinking light on his dashboard startled him--he blinked and realized how low he was on gas.

  
“Shit,” Stiles murmured, mentally tracing the route to the nearest gas station. With a worried glance at the little red ticker, he yanked the steering wheel into a very illegal U-turn and sped left through a quiet suburban neighborhood and a yellow light. There was a fairly sketchy stretch of road, then a small shopping center complete with a gas station loomed into view. Even at this hour, bright floodlights lit up the parking lot even as the shop windows were dark and still.

  
Stiles shook off the slightly creepy feeling of being alone at the pump and popped the gas cap. The center was in a weirdly deserted area, with the only nearby house being the old Hale mansion, which was through the woods and up a massive hill behind the shopping center. No one had lived there for years, since the Hale family had been wildly unpopular for whatever reason back in the day, finally driven away by unsettled townspeople.

  
Stiles smirked. Knowing Beacon Hills--a town that would have looked more in place full of first-generation Fords and 1940s radios or gramophones--some Hale relative had probably forgotten to return a library book and thus besmirched the family name before the whole town.

  
Stiles first felt the uncomfortable tickling feeling while he put the pump into the car. He smacked the normal fuel button and bounced on the balls of his feet, willing the need to pee away. _Not now, come on, I’m pumping gas, not now!_ Not that his bladder was listening. If anything, it was twingeing particularly hard like that to spite him.

  
“Goddamm--” Stiles glanced around sheepishly, then sped over to the corner of station. He unzipped his pants feverishly, nearly ripping his boxers, and sighed in pure relief as his bladder let loose into the grassy little ditch by the side of the road.

  
“Whooooooo, oh yeah,” he muttered, head raised up, eyes closed, just floating on the feeling of a really good, long pee.

  
“Stiles?”

  
The boy in question screamed like a little girl and dropped the jeans he held in one hand completely. “Oh, shit, fuck, shit, what--? Who’s--who’s there?”

  
From behind him came a snort, then a full-blown laugh. “Crap, I’m sorry. I thought it was you--I just didn’t want to freak you out if you turned around and I was just, like, standing here.”

  
Stiles shook, grabbed his pants, and zipped quickly. “Wait, Derek? Music-store-Derek?” And lo and behold, like some kind of shadow-turned-Burberry-model, Derek of the music store was standing right beside the blue Jeep, chuckling but clearly a bit embarrassed.

  
“Um,” Stiles blanched. His hair, which he’d been letting grow out, was probably doing that half-flat, half-poofy thing it did that made him look like an old opera singer. He was barefoot. And shirtless. And covered in goosebumps. He suddenly felt absurdly self-conscious about his nipples. Were they too big? How big were boy nipples supposed to be?  
Derek, on the other hand, was remarkably put together for a young man lurking in a gas station in the wee hours of the morning. Leather jacket, dark shirt, nice jeans--and no shoes. Huh. That was weird.

  
“You’re barefoot.”

  
“So are you. Do you usually pump gas without shoes?”

  
Stiles scowled, mostly to cover up how his sleep-addled brain was focusing Derek’s low voice and how it sounded like late afternoon sex and how hot late afternoon sex with Derek would be.

“Do you usually stalk guys at two am while they fill their cars up?”

  
“I was investigated weird sounds in my yard.”

  
“Your yard?”

  
Derek pointed behind him at the hulking shape that was the Hale mansion. “I live there. A hundred years ago, this gas station was my yard. The whole town was, actually.”

  
Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “You’re--you’re a Hale? But you’re...young and stuff. I thought you guys had moved out east or died out or something.”

  
Derek gave a sharp laugh, accompanied by a strange grin Stiles couldn’t interpret. “We’ve died out, all right.” He looked at the house and back at Stiles. “My family had an--accident. We had a house in South Dakota and there was this reunion-type of thing last year...long story short, the house burned down.”

  
Stiles’ heart dropped. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean--”

  
Derek shook his head. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t. It’s just weird...there used to be so many of us and how--it’s just me and my little sister.”

  
“Your sister?”

  
“Yeah, Diana. She’s seventeen, but she lives in San Francisco with some...family friends. We’ve never set foot in Beacon Hills, but I figured this house is just sitting here, gathering mold, so I moved back in. This last year Di and I were kind of just traveling the country, seeing the sights, trying to find somewhere to put down roots. In the end, though, you can’t outrun your family’s problems. Might as well face ‘em.”

  
“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, remembering his mom’s blinking dialysis machine and the smell of his father’s whiskey breath. “I get that.”

  
Derek was silent for a moment, then seemed to collect himself. “So,” he smiled, with that cocky grin fixed in place again, “what’s a naked young thing like you doing out here so late in the morning?”

  
“Semi-naked,” Stiles corrected. “I’m--well, I’m gonna go pick my dad up from the Hill.”

  
Derek’s brows drew together. “Isn’t it a bit late for the Beacon Hills sheriff to be out drinking?”

  
Stiles shrugged. “My mom died from cancer a while back. Sometimes we all need a drink.”

  
“Oh,” Derek looked down. “For what it’s worth, I hope you’re okay.”

  
Stiles was surprised. “Most people say they’re sorry.”

  
“I’ve had a year of people saying they’re sorry for something they didn’t do. Figure you’ve experienced the same. And I know what it’s like to have to live in the aftermath of something like that, so what I’m asking is if you’re okay.”

  
“Y-yeah, I’m f-fine.” God. This caring thing was way hot. Those big blue eyes seemed almost to glow in the darkness, seeking out the tickle behind Stiles’ ribs that made him want to lick the length of Derek’s undoubtably impressive abs. A boy like that definitely hit the gym.

  
Stiles’ visits to the gym had yielded little more than aching muscles and the number of a wrinkly old woman who hadn’t seen below-the-belt action since the Reagan administration.  
“Um. Well, I’ve got to go, uh, get my dad,” Stiles choked out, only a wee bit flustered at the thought of whatever other muscles Derek had hidden under all those layers of James Dean leather and badassery.

  
“Right,” the rebel without a cause in question nodded, as if he were completely used to talking to skinny, half-naked boys in gas stations late at night about their respective fucked up families.  
Stiles scurried over to the Jeep and pulled the gas nozzle out, screwing the car’s cap in quickly with fingers he hadn’t realized until just now were nearly frozen. When he came around to the driver’s side, Derek was leaning against the front of the open door.

  
“I don’t suppose,” he said, grinning like a fool, “that maybe sometime I could take you out for coffee.”

  
“What, you don’t think I can hold my liquor? What kind of child do you think I am?” Stiles asked, mock-offended.

  
Derek laughed at that, head thrown back. Stiles clambered inside the jeep and the barefoot boy in the leather jacket closed the door for him. “Don’t even try with me. I’ve got a seventeen year old sister, remember? I know all the tricks. You’re eighteen, tops,” he said, voice dropping low as he leaned about two inches away from Stiles’ face, “and I don’t want to be be charged with corrupting the sheriff’s son. Even if he is,” and here his eyes dropped very obviously to Stiles’ mouth, “delectable.”

  
Stiles swore he felt his jaw hit the floor (and he was positive his dick hit the steering wheel), but before he could say anything, Derek winked, slapped the roof of the Jeep, and disappeared into the night.

  
“Holy shit,” Stiles whispered, dropping his head on the wheel. He fumbled with t he key in the ignition, mind rocketing all over the place--Derek’s mouth, Derek’s hands, Derek’s mouth and hands on various parts of Stiles’ body, the things Derek could do with Stiles’ body... _Ah, crap. That’s definitely a boner._

  
Stiles said a quick prayer of thanks that his dad would be too blackout drunk to notice the tent in his son’s jeans and sped off into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudes, I am most heartily sorry this took me so long but it kept writing and rewriting itself....argh, I know it's not much but I promise to have something more up soon! As soon as I possibly can (S2God, senior teachers are trying to drown us in homework amirite)! (And there will be kissin' 'n' shit in the near future I promise!) Thank you all so much for the love and please be patient with me xoxo

Just when Stiles thought everything was going to be absolutely _great_ , everything went absolutely _wrong_.

He should’ve seen it coming. Everything else had gone so well. Derek had asked him on a date two days after the Nighttime Car Incident, when Stiles had visited the music shop again. It had been really cute and everything; Stiles had been running his fingers along that beautiful, beautiful violin when Derek had appeared.

“I’ll trade you one song for a date.”

Stiles had raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was a nonchalant expression. “Am I some sort of mad, fiddling whore now?”

Derek had shrugged and gazed at him most becomingly. “One measly little song for a date I promise you’ll never forget?”

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear.”

They had shaken pinkies. “Then how can I refuse?”

And Stiles had played something bursting with joy; if it had been a color, it would have been soft pink and blue and bright yellow; if it had been a taste, it would be powdered sugar and tangy lemon. When he had finished, panting and a little dazed, Derek had been surrounded by the other shop patrons who exploded in applause. Derek himself had been looking at Stiles as if he were the only port in a storm; a gaze so far and deep, it felt like Derek had been looking for Stiles his whole life.

“So,” Stiles had gasped, “this date?”

The morning of the Unforgettable Date, Stiles had called Lydia in a panic over what to wear. Winter break had started the day of the Nighttime Car Incident, so she--and the rest of the Beacon Hills elite--was getting her share of sun down in the Bahamas. She squeezed him of every detail about Derek Hale in exchange for some idea of what to wear, and made him swear to tell her what happened later. After that, there was a wee tiny incident with the washing machine, but in the end Stiles looked presentable and had never liked those jeans anyway.

Derek had said comfortable, so Stiles wore jeans--not the uncomfortable nice ones that the washer had mauled, but still pretty nice--and a rolled up red plaid shirt with a white tee underneath. And nicer shoes than he usually wore (Lydia had been particularly adamant about the shoes). His hair wasn’t doing the poofy thing it sometimes did; the only thing that was typical him was that his socks weren’t matching, but hey--give a guy some credit. Socks are sneaky little bastards.

He looked good, he felt good--his dad had even come down, totally sober, to give him an awkward pat on the shoulder and then a quiet hug that spoke more than whatever sentences the two of they had been able to string together since Stiles’ mom had died.

Derek had rung the doorbell at exactly seven, looking gorgeous and mysterious, flashing that pointy smile that was somehow sweet and wicked wrapped up all in one. He and Stiles dad had done the perfunctory hand shake/up-and-down-evaluation ritual that fathers and dates across the world do. And then Stiles and Derek had driven for nearly half an hour in Derek’s new-smelling, buttery-leathered, sleek-’n’-shiny black car (too sporty for Stiles, who liked his Jeep a little battered, a little mud-stained, but still a beauty in all her glory). 

“So,” Stiles asked, tapping his finger against the glossy dashboard. “Where ya takin’ me?” 

“Target.” Derek smirked and winked.

“What’s at Target?”

“Many mysterious things. But, and I swear this comes from experience, never try to buy a Rubik’s cube anywhere near the holidays. Those things sell out like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Are we getting a Rubik’s cube?”

“Nope. Shush. Relax. Enjoy the nice car and the pretty boy taking you somewhere special.”

“Someone’s full of himself.”

Derek nodded solemnly. “It’s a curse, really.”

“Oh, shut up, sassafras,” Stiles teased, which earned him another eye-crinkling grin.

 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Stiles had always liked Target, mostly because you could find anything you wanted there. Also, the geriatric employees were a little batty, but adored him. He was on first-name terms with most of the staff.

For whatever reason, old people absolutely loved Stiles (for instance, refer back to that older lady at the gym who gave him her number. _Loved_ him.).

“Okay, now that we’re here, are you gonna tell me what we need?”

“A blanket. And some plastic cups.” Derek paused at the $1 bins. “And anything else you see that you like.”

“Anything? ‘Cause I think I see something I like.”

Derek bumped him gently and leaned close to whisper. “Let’s stick to food-related anything. For now. Any idea where the blankets are?”

“Across from the DVDs. I’ll grab some cups. Meet you at register four.”

Stiles wove his way through the aisles, snagging a sleeve of red cups and darting into the snack section. Whatever Derek had planned, it could probably be improved with a few handfuls of pretzels--Stiles was _nuts_ for pretzels. Usually with peanut butter, but he figured a surefire way to ruin a first date was finding out your potential future boyfriend had peanut allergies. Best not to risk it.

Stiles was so focused on Mission: Pretzel Impossible that he nearly crashed into a woman coming out of the snack aisle.

“Whoa! Settle down there, cowboy!” Her hand shot out to grab Stiles’ arm before he teetered into a lovely but likely none-too-stable Cheez-It tower.

“Jesus! S-sorry, just a little overexcited,” Stiles could feel the blush burning his ears and cheeks.

The lady, who was maybe in her twenties and quite pretty, in a pointy sort of way, frowned and shrugged. “Snacks are important. Not running girls over is also important.”

“Yeah, just, um--” Stiles stuttered, throat suddenly dry under her piercing gaze, “pretzels--” he edged past her to snatch up a bag of his favorite pretzels bits. “Um. Important.”

She laughed, all traces of annoyance instantly gone. “Christ, how old are you? Twelve? Calm down, kiddo. I don’t bite.” She flashed a set of super-white teeth and winked. “Unless you’re into that.”

Stiles gulped. There was something about this woman, an aura, kind of, that just made the light hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He couldn’t quite place a finger on it. “I--I gotta get back to--to--um. Thing.”

“Gotcha. And keep an eye on those feet of yours. Wouldn’t want to run into any more trouble, hmm?”

Stiles bobbed a quick assent and scuttled off, sweating and utterly flushed. He didn’t know how he knew, but whatever her deal was it wasn’t something that belonged in a garden-variety Target.

Derek was already waiting in line at the register when Stiles skidded to a stop next to him. “Ah, yes, the famous Narnian pretzels of Target. Always tricky to find.” He looked closer at Stiles, noticing his flushed face and shaky hands for the first time. “Stiles? You okay? I’m sorry, I was joking--”

“No, no, it’s not you!” Stiles shook his head vehemently, forcing himself to take a deep breath and calm down. “I just--I crashed into this lady and got a bit shook up--all this running around--”

Derek smirked. “She must’ve been really something.”

The hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stood up again and he peeked over his shoulder. The scary woman was walking past them, focused on her iPhone.

“That’s her,” he squeaked.

Derek cast a glance over his shoulder--and went completely rigid. Stiles saw his hands clench into fists in the pockets of his leather jacket, his teeth clench, his nose flare.

“D-Derek? What’s wrong?”

The guy was visibly shaken, like he was physically struggling to keep it together. “Nothing. Everything’s fine. Just--let’s just get out of here.” He ripped the cups and pretzels from Stiles’ hands and tossed them on the conveyor belt.

Derek was silent all the way back into the car, but shifty, like the woman they’d seen was the bounty hunter to his mass-murdering criminal. As they were leaving the parking lot, the muscle in his jaw tightened again.

“Did she talk to you? That woman--when you ran into her?” His tone was quiet, but ragged, nearly angry but out of--could it be fear?

“Um. A little?” Stiles tapped his fingers nervously on the seat. “Why? Who is she? Why does she matter?” A thought occurred to him. “Is she your ex or something?”

“Or something,” Derek muttered, in a tone so dark and deep Stiles had to remind himself this was real life, not a _Dracula_ remake. “Did she ask you any questions? About you--about me?”

“Well, no, it wasn’t anything important, but who--if she’s an ex, you might as well tell me now. Why’re you--what’s going on? This is weird, dude. Some random chick in a Target has reduced you to Jell-O. You gotta tell me what her deal is.”

Derek’s only response was to grip the steering wheel tighter and press the gas pedal to the floor. By now, the little black car was tearing through the outskirts of Beacon Hills, where the houses were one-story and the yards surrounded by low chain-link fences. A few minutes later they were zipping through the woods, tall fir trees forming veritable walls alongside the dirt road that lead out of town and up into the small mountain range that lined the eastern side of town.

Stiles was ready to explode within a few minutes of silence; the only thing keeping him quiet was Derek’s expression. It was like the guy wanted go Cyclops on him and laserbeam eye-burn everything in his path. After what felt like a literal millennia, they screeched to a halt on a little grassy shoulder in what looked like the middle of nowhere.

Derek tapped his thumb on the wheel twice and the fire in his eyes abated a little. “Her name is Kate. Kate Argent. And yeah, she was an ex. A long time ago. And she hurt me so badly--Christ, I will _never_ get over it.” He paused, sounding choked. “I came here because I thought it was the last place she’d ever come. Beacon Hills is where we both grew up. I ventured out into the world, but was always happy to come home. For her, this town was a prison. She always said her eighteenth birthday was the key to her escape.”

“Why? What was so hard about it for her?”

“Family,” here Derek smiled, yet looking for all the world like he was on the verge of tears. “It’s what always gets us in the end, isn’t it? Family? Her dad was controlling, to put it kindly. Her brother followed the same path, without question. Kate’s sole purpose until she left was finding new ways to rebel, to show her dad she didn’t want to continue on in his footsteps. Dating me was one of those acts of rebellion, though I didn’t know until the end.”

“And then what happened?”

Derek’s shoulders sank and he looked through the windshield at the expanse of trees beyond, but also as if he could see into the past if he looked hard enough. “She realized that she belonged with her family. Quite well, actually.”

“Wait, wait a minute, what? That’s just it? You’re leaving out some backstory, aren’t you?” Stiles paused and considered for a minute. “Does her hurting you have anything to do with your family moving away?”

Derek swallowed, looking down into his lap. “Silly me,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “I’m trying to bring you out here on this great date and instead I’ve slammed you with all this relationship baggage. I apologize--do me a favor, and forget I said anything?” He looked at Stiles so earnestly that he found himself stammering out agreement.

“Perfect,” and there Derek was again, Derek from the music store and the night at the gas station, smiling like he’d won a bet with the Devil. “Now, come on. We’re going to have a picnic. On the edge of the world.”


End file.
